


An Avvar Love Story: BRIDESGIFT

by Mikkeneko



Series: AN AVVAR LOVE STORY [6]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Avvar!Hawke, Fluff, M/M, Post-Kirkwall, and a tiny smidgen of angst, because you can't have anders in a fic without it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 14:25:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4183218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the run from Kirkwall after the explosion, Hawke is keeping secrets from his lover. Anders is almost afraid to find out what they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Avvar Love Story: BRIDESGIFT

The furtiveness started the day after they left Ostwick.

Well, not the general furtiveness – they were all living the life of fugitives now, avoiding crowds, traveling by night, keeping their faces covered. Isabela had put them ashore in Ostwick, promising to lay a false trail for them over the water, to spread the news in every port city she passed that the legendary fugitives from Kirkwall were on board. It would put her in some danger – Hawke had protested – but she just laughed and said it was a good way to get back in the practice of outrunning Chantry galleons.

They’d spend a few days in Ostwick, moving around, keeping to the shadows while they restocked and took the lay of the land. Once they’d bought or, as Hawke would say, _acquired_  enough supplies they’d taken to the road, striking for the Vimmarck mountains. Hawke liked mountains – felt at home in them, like his father’s clan in the Frostbacks in Ferelden – and where Hawke went, Fenris went too.

As for Anders, well. He’d go anywhere.  He hadn’t exactly planned this far. He’d thought to die in Kirkwall, justice for the lives he’d taken. He’d left his life in Hawke’s hands.

And Hawke had taken it, taken it whole.

But now Hawke was acting strangely. He’d started out the journey in a burst of determined enthusiasm, optomistic about the prospect of a fresh life and a fresh start outside of Kirkwall. The whole journey by boat from Kirkwall’s docks he’d been cheerful, helping to crew the ship and learning terrible sea shantys from Isabela’s ragtag crew. And – well, it was a small boat anyway, but he’d made a point of never going too far from Anders’ side, always staying within sight or singing within earshot.

One day out of Ostwick and all that had changed. Now, on the road he hung back away from Anders or sped up to nearly outrun him, keeping a long distance (and always Fenris, much to the elf’s disgust) between them. When they made camp far off the roads he would disappear into the woods for an hour or more at a time, multiple times per night.

Anders didn’t feel like he was up to the task of interrogating Hawke to find out what was wrong. He already thought he had a pretty good idea what was wrong, and he didn’t think he could bear to have it confirmed. It would only be natural for Hawke to have second thoughts – regrets – slowly simmering resentment for the apostate he’d been saddled with, the life he’d been forced to abandon. If Hawke couldn’t stand to be in his presence any more, how could Anders blame him? Maybe if he just let Hawke have his space, unasked and unquestioned, then that would be enough – enough not to drive him away for good.

Fenris, on the other hand, had no such hangups. On the third night traveling the road winding up into the foothills, the third time Hawke returned after disappearing in one night, Fenris threw up his hands, scattering cords of firewood in a clattering hail, and swore a long vicious streak in Tevene. _“Fasta vass!_   What is the matter with you, Hawke?” he shouted.

Hawke froze, immediately looking guilty, one hand still pulling furtively on the clasps of his cloak. He had it bundled up around his neck and head, thick and heavy although it wasn’t really all that cold out. “Um… nothing is the matter with me?” he tried unconvincingly.

Fenris stomped over to him, while Anders watched in paralyzed alarm from the other side of the campfire. “I have had it with all this sneaking around,” he snarled. “The last thing we need while chasing about on this fools’ errand is to be keeping secrets from each other! What are you hiding?”

“I’m not hiding anything!” Hawke protested feebly, and scrambled away from Fenris, trying to keep the campfire between them. The elf followed him, his expression and the ghostly white lines of his lyrium tattoos looming menacingly in the twilight, and Hawke kept scrambling.

His back bumped up against Anders, who was sitting very still and hunched on his side of the fire, hoping not to draw attention. With a yelp, Hawke tried to throw himself away from Anders, but not before the hood of his cloak let out a very tiny, and very distinctive _mew._

“Garrett, your –” Anders broke off, staring in disbelief. “Your coat just meowed at me.”

The hood mewed again, and this time was joined by a second, equally tiny voice. “Um.” Sheepishly Hawke reached up and unclasped his cloak, pulling it around into his lap; the fabric wiggled and bulged, then fell back to reveal a pair of small, fuzzy white heads. “I, uh, saw them in a basket by the road on our way out of Ostwick. I couldn’t help myself.”

“Kittens?” Fenris’ face was a study in incredulous disgust. “Half of the world is arrayed against us and you stop to pick up a few mangy feral kittens?”

Hawke opened his mouth to reply, and Fenris cut him off sharply. “No, forget I asked. That is _exactly_  something that you would do.”

“So you’ve been sneaking away to take care of them?” Anders asked, the pieces falling into place. The kittens’ eyes were still infant-blue, squinting about the world with bleary focus, and their black-tipped ears were still low to the sides of their heads. “But why hide it?”

Hawke pulled a face. “Because they were _meant_  to be a surprise,” he muttered. “When we got to the Hawkeshold… wherever it will be… I was going to give them to you then. After you laid the new hearth, made it our new home.”

“Oh,” Anders said. He didn’t know what else to say. This was so very the opposite of all his fears that he was left caught out, disoriented.

“You should have gotten one when we married the first time,” Hawke admitted, as if confessing some grave sin. “They’re meant to be given to new brides, to symbolize the start of a new home. But I never… So! I figured, I’d get you _two_ , to make up for it. Right?”

“I guess I forgive you,” Anders said weakly. He couldn’t take his eyes off the kittens. So small, so helpless, so fuzzy and cute. His fingers twitched with the need to touch them. “So… if they’re meant for me… can I…? Can I hold them?”

“Of course.” Hawke’s face lit up, and he scooted over until his thigh was pressing against Anders’, shifting the cloak holding the kittens so that the cloth was draped over both their laps. The kittens squalled their displeasure at being jostled about, digging tiny needle-sharp claws through the fabric into Anders’ leg.

Anders carefully detached one of the kittens from its perch and lifted it up in trembling hands. Maker, it was so warm. So fragile and so warm and so tiny, and Hawke had gotten it just for Anders. “Garrett…” he let out in a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

Hawke leaned against Anders’ side, bumping their shoulders together. “Be happy,” he said. “At least try. That’s how you can thank me.”

Watching from the other side of the fire, Fenris made a noise of such profound disgust that the kittens squeaked. “I take it from this that you no longer going to be such ridiculous idiots?” he demanded. “It was bad enough having you two pine tragically for each other the first time around, I was not looking forward to a repeat.”

“I think we’ll be fine, Fenris,” Hawke replied, his eyes not leaving Anders.

Fenris stood up, and pulled his sword-belt around with a deliberately overdramatic scrape. “Fine,” he growled. “Then _I_ am going to go stand watch, so I don’t have to sit here and watch you be disgusting at each other.”

He stormed off. Anders looked at Hawke. “Think he’d warm up if we named a kitten after him?” he asked.

Hawke laughed. “It’s worth a shot, anyway,” he said, and leaned in for a kiss.

Maybe it was the prospect of a name, or maybe it was just the added warmth and security of the second body; in his hands, the kitten Anders was holding began to purr.

 

* * *

 

 

~end.

**Author's Note:**

> When reading up on [Avvar customs](http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Avvar) on the wiki, a lot of the cultural aspects were pinging as kind of viking to me, so I decided to throw in a viking [tradition of giving kittens to new brides.](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/523191681682160499/) You can hardly go wrong with kittens!


End file.
